


12 Days of Tentacle!lock Christmas

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lestrade to the Rescue, M/M, Sherlock Has Tentacles, Squirrel Loose in the Flat, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Sherlock & John celebrate their first Christmas. Tentacle crack. Some h/c. Some fluff. A bit of smut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bejewelled tentacles hung by the chimney with care](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046793) by [HiddenLacuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Am I a monster, John?"
> 
> Chapter prompt is: 'I want to make new traditions with you and we can even wear clothes for some of them.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on prompts from the [Seasonal Fucking Cheer 2016 Ficathon](http://roquentine19.tumblr.com/post/153761991438/welcome-to-our-seasonal-fucking-cheer-2016) and the [Christmas OTP challenge](http://cypress-tree.tumblr.com/post/36866885886/christmas-otp-challenge).
> 
> This story is a prequel to [Sherlock's Big Easter Adventure](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6274753%22).

“Am I a monster, John?”

John looked up from the computer screen.

“What? No, of course not, Sherlock. What are you going on about?”

“You know exactly what I’m going on about: your bit of amusement at my expense. Cannot monsters celebrate this time of year in much the same manner as those who possess only four, tediously inflexible limbs? Or must my kind be relegated to shadowy tales, farcical verse, and gag gifts?”

“Okay, you’re losing me.”

“This.”

Sherlock tapped a few keys of John’s computer and read:

“ _Bejewelled_ _tentacles hung by the chimney with care, / in hopes that the Elder God might our lives spare_. You found this poem quite humorous, John, especially this line: _His tentacles tore and plunged into my belly, / and I saw my guts fall like a spilled bowlful of jelly_!”

“No, Sherlock, no!”

“No?”

Sherlock tapped a few more keys and John’s tinny voice crackled through the computer speakers.

“— _lock, Sherlock? Oh, good, he’s not here. This is hilarious! Ha, ha! But if he caught me reading it, he would disembowel me for certain! Or ‘_ suck out my marrow with terrible zeal _.’ Oh, Christ, that’s brilliant!_ ”

“Brilliant, John, really?”

Sherlock turned abruptly, stomped across the room, and buried himself face-first in the sofa. John followed and perched beside him.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. It was cruel. Please forgive me.” He rubbed Sherlock’s back, then bent to press his lips to one of the thin slits in the blue silk dressing gown. “You’re not a monster. You’re extraordinary, from your gorgeous brain to all your other gorgeous parts.” One small tentacle escaped through a slit and curled around John’s index finger. John smiled and shook it. “But I didn’t even know that you went in for the holidays. They don’t seem your kind of thing."

“There’s never been anyone to share them with,” said Sherlock.

“Well, that’s changed, isn’t it? You like Christmas, I like Christmas, so, that settles it. Let’s do Christmas, let’s do everything!”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “Everything?”

“Every single treacly tradition there is to do at this time of year. Decorations. Baking. Gifts. Caroling. And every part of you,” he gave each of Sherlock’s eight tentacles an affectionate caress as they emerged, “is invited to participate. In fact, in many things, you have a decided advantage.”

“In all things, John, I have a decided advantage. That list you made when you first moved in, ‘Sherlock Holmes— _his limits,_ ’ is laughable.”

John laughed.

Sherlock glanced at John’s computer; his eyes darkened. “You’re not afraid of my unspeakable tentacles roaming upon you, the stump of your nose disappearing through my teeth, or my savouring your blood like a treasure bequeathed?”

“I don’t know about the nose bit, but the rest of it fills me with something other than fear.”

John grinned at Sherlock’s shocked expression, fleeting though it was.

“John, I know that we agreed to take things slowly, but perhaps…”

“Yes. I fully expect us to get caught up in the spirit of the season, and since this is our first Christmas, and since Christmas is about traditions—”

“I want to make new traditions with you, John.”

“Me, too, Sherlock.”

“And perhaps for some of them we can even wear clothes.”


	2. Decorations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock shows that he knows both when to hold them and when to fold them (Christmas decorations).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two prompts are: getting out/putting up decorations & 'The holiday season has inspired me to make this heartfelt grand gesture I have been wobbling on.'

“Good news or bad news?” asked John when he reached the top of the stairs.

“Good news,” said Sherlock.

“Mrs. Hudson has a mad lot of surplus Christmas lights that we may borrow if we can untangle them.” He dumped a heavy, coiled mass on the kitchen table. “We’ll have to sort them all out and test them. Some of them are bound to be duds. Mostly white lights, a couple of rainbow-coloured sets, blinking, non-blinking. There’s enough here for a tree, the windows, the fireplace, and anywhere else we might want to hang them.”

“Bad news?”

“Mrs. Hudson does not have any ornaments to lend us because _someone_ used several of hers for indoor firearms target practise.”

“That was in July! Why is she still upset?”

“They’d been in her family for generations, Sherlock.”

“They were clay pigeons, John. They were meant to be shot!”

“Turtledoves, Sherlock, and French hens. Part of a set.”

“Perhaps, but they were hideous, though the perfect size and shape for testing marksmanship. She should be thanking me.”

“Be that as it may, reminding her of the incident put her in a _very_ foul mood, so as a preemptive strike against a hike in the rent, I offered to go to the shops for her. She’s baking fruitcakes to sell at her church bazaar and needs,” John pulled a long list from his back pocket, “everything, apparently.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked at a knotted strand of lights. “Fruitcake,” he grumbled.

“Any ideas for a theme for our decorations?”

“Theme?”

“A unifying motif, for ornaments on the tree, perhaps other decorations as well.”

“Untraceable poisons? Notable 19th century serial killers? Tobacco ash?”

John laughed. “Those would be interesting, but seeing as how it’s _our_ first Christmas, maybe something with a bit of both of us in it? We could start with colours. There’s the traditional red and green or silver and gold or—“

Sherlock huffed. “Boring.”

“I thought you’d say that. Well, think about it. We can talk about it when I return.”

* * *

“Sorry I am so late. I had to go to three shops to find—Sherlock? Oh, my God!”

“All the lights work, John.”

The room was dark, save for the soft glow of dozens of strands of white Christmas lights.

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the rug. Strands of lights hung from six of his raised tentacles. More strands of lights, some blinking, some not, lay on the floor, encircling him like planet orbits around a dark sun.

And scattered everywhere, rug, chairs, sofa, even in Sherlock’s hair, were folded bits of paper.  Sherlock’s hands and two smallest tentacles fluttered, then dropped a pair of somethings. John stepped carefully towards Sherlock and picked the somethings up.

“Snowflakes,” he said. Then he looked about the room. “Stars. Flowers. Doves.”

“And a pair of dragons,” said Sherlock. The two smallest tentacles presented the folded dragons to John. One of the dragons wore a tiny black coat with tiny blue scarf and the other a tiny oatmeal-coloured jumper. “It’s Christmas. No sense wobbling on grand, heartfelt gestures.”

“No sense at all,” said John. “It’s amazing. You’re amazing.” He sank to his knees in front of Sherlock and kissed him gently on the lips. “How did you do all this?”

“As you said, I have an advantage, John.” The tentacles wiggled. “Plus, Youtube and Mrs. Hudson gave me the paper in exchange for a promise to wrap all her Christmas gifts this year.”

John shook his head, then smiled. “It’s all so beautiful. I can’t wait to have a tree to decorate. Thank you.”

He kissed Sherlock again; this time, their lips lingered.

Sherlock pulled back. “The coloured lights also work, but I thought we’d save them.”

“For?”

“The bedroom.”


	3. Fruitcake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the fruitcake giveth and the fruitcake taketh away. 
> 
> Rating increase for snogging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompts are baking and 'Fruitcake and other things that separate us.'

“…and so you see, John…”

John’s armchair. No John.

“John?”

Sherlock looked up and frowned.

“Oh, yes. Fruitcake,” he mumbled to the empty room. “I hate fruitcake.”

John’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Sherlock! Fruitcake!”

“I hate fruitcake,” said Sherlock.

“How can you hate fruitcake?”

Sherlock huffed.

“Well, you’re going to change your mind when you try Mrs. Hudson’s,” said John. “This is from the first one out of the oven. Fabulous and still warm. Here, try it. Call it an experiment, if you must, and do it for science.”

Sherlock huffed again but ate the morsel offered. He hummed.

“None of the foul bits, right?” said John, taking a bite. “And oceans of—“

“Sherry.”

“Yes.” John turned away from Sherlock and took a second bite. “I love this fruitcake, Sherlock, not as much as I love you, of course, but, a close second.”

John froze mid-chew. Then he swallowed and forced himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock looked at John, then he looked away, then he looked at John, and then he said, in a voice that was trying so very hard to be arrogant and failing miserably at it,

“That is the most ridiculous declaration of love I’ve ever heard.”

“But you did hear it.”

“Yes. You love fruitcake?”

“Yeah,” said John. He took a step towards Sherlock, grinning at whatever he saw in Sherlock’s face.

“What a coincidence, so do I.”

Sherlock was trying so very hard not to smile, and failing miserably at it. He took a step towards John.

Their lips met.

John’s arms curled around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s arms slipped around John’s waist. Then all eight tentacles emerged and enveloped John.

“You give the best hugs, Sherlock.”

“I love you, too.”

They kissed again. Then the two base tentacles gave John’s arse a squeeze.

“You’ve been at the sherry, John.”

“It’s not the sherry talking, Sherlock. The words might have slipped out sooner than I’d planned, but I meant every one of them.”

“No, that’s not my concern.” He kissed John softly, letting his tongue drag along John’s bottom lip. “I like sherry, even more than fruitcake, but not as nearly much as I like you.”

“Then have some more of both of us.”

John wove the fingers of one hand in Sherlock’s hair and pulled Sherlock’s head closer. Then he covered Sherlock’s mouth with his own, first pressing hard, as if seeking to taste the rich sweetness on Sherlock’s lips, then teasing Sherlock’s tongue with furtive licks.

Sherlock’s tentacles tightened around John.

John moved his other hand to Sherlock’s hair, holding Sherlock’s head steady as he opened his mouth wider and pushed up.

The kiss grew more heated, more claiming, more demanding, with every moment.

“Christ, Sherlock. Sofa?”

Sherlock grunted and squeezed John’s arse again. “In all things, John, I have a decided advantage, snogging included.”

“Is that a fact?”

They stumbled together, neither wanting to break the embrace.

“I shan’t believe you, John, if you say that you haven’t considered—and by consider, of course, I mean fantasised about—the possibilities?”

As Sherlock’s largest tentacles squeezed, one of his second largest tentacles curled between John’s legs and stroked the front of his trousers.

“Oh! Yeah, well, I did, uh, I do, uh, think about it a bit, but I didn’t, uh, don’t want to presume.”

“It’s Christmas, John. The season of presuming.”

John laughed. “We’re forging new traditions, aren’t we? Let’s start with proper holiday snogging.”

Lips locked, they toppled onto the sofa with all pf Sherlock’s tentacles toying with all of John’s buttons.

Then, a voice called from below,

“John, the next batch is ready! And I need you to crack some more nuts!”

John swore.

Sherlock groaned.

“Later,” said John with an apologetic kiss on the cheek. He eased from under Sherlock and took a deep breath.

Sherlock watched him disappear down the stairs and cried,

“I hate fruitcake!”


	4. Ugly Jumpers & Peppermint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many bombs are dropped but only one detonates.
> 
> Warning for mentions of masturbation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Not everything has to be peppermint and other lines that must be drawn in the sand.

“Fuck.”

Sherlock did not swear often, but if anything deserved a lazy and pedantic use of the English language, it was the garment draped over the back of John’s armchair.

Sherlock took a deep breath and gave the green jumper an unfortunately-only-metaphorically-withering look. Then he frowned and sniffed again.

Why so much peppermint?

Fuck! He’d been so distracted by the buck-toothed, red-nosed, reindeered crime against sartorial virtue that he failed to observe the gift basket spilling onto the kitchen table.

Peppermint cocoa. Sherlock frowned.

Peppermint bark. Whatever that was. Something obviously manufactured by someone with no knowledge of botany whatsoever.

Peppermint lotion. Sherlock sniffed. Not as grievous as the jumper, but still solidly in his mental file labeled ‘for elimination, surreptitious or otherwise.’

Peppermint lubricant. Oh, no! This could not stand. Lines must be drawn in the sand.

“John!”

“In the bath.”

At this hour?

Sherlock crept down the hall, bottle in hand. The sharp scent grew thicker as he approached the closed door.

“Did you see the basket?” called John.

Sherlock leaned against the wall. “Difficult to miss.”

“Harry. Sent her gift early because she’s going on holiday.”

“Peppermint?”

John laughed. “Yeah, Harry’s the kind that gives you the gift that _she_ wants. Anyway, there were these bath bombs and since a pair of twins vomited on me at the surgery today, I decided to get squeaky clean. I’ll be out in a minute. Hey, I found my Christmas jumper.”

“Also difficult to miss.”

“I’m going to wear it the afternoon to the Christmas tree farm.”

Sherlock frowned. “Um, John?”

Sherlock’s thinnest tentacle wrapped around the neck of the lube bottle then pushed through a crack in the door.

“What’s—? Holy fuck! I didn’t see that! Her idea of a joke? Maybe? Uh, Sherlock—?”

“No, John.”

John laughed. “I agree. Not _everything_ has to be peppermint this time of year.”  

“And for future reference, I must insist on selecting the emollient we use for sexual congress. Many commercial variants react very poorly with my own secretions. It's for our mutual safety and pleasure, you understand.”

_THUNK!_

“John?”

“Uh, sorry, the bomb sort of slipped. Your secretions?”

“During moments of extreme arousal, my tentacles are self-lubricating, John.”

“Fuck!”

“John?”

“Good to know. Give us a minute, yeah? Then we’ll go pick out our Christmas tree.”

“I’ll sharpen my axe.”

* * *

It was difficult to sharpen an axe whilst calculating the very favorable odds that John was masturbating in the bath, but Sherlock persevered.

John’s ‘minute’ was, of course, many minutes.

Sherlock did not complain, the almost-muffled groan and subsequent nearly-stifled sigh that escaped from behind the toilet door were adequate compensation for the wait. He busied himself with his axe, then setting it aside, rescued a long-pending, but delicate and thought-absorbing experiment from the bread box.

* * *

Life was good.

Nice bath. Nice wank. And tonight, beneath a beautifully trimmed tree, he and Sherlock were going to have a nice, nice, _nice_ fuck.

And some peppermint cocoa.

Life was good, and  nothing was going to spoil—

_BOOM!_


	5. More Ugly Jumpers & the Christmas Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the axe man (and detective) cometh—and leaveth with a Norway spruce. H/C. POV Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompts are: buying & decorating a Christmas tree & wearing ugly Christmas jumpers & 'You should really take off that seasonal jumper and/or hat and/or pair of shoes' & 'A tree is trimmed, and ornaments are explained.'

Sherlock’s desire was a fickle beast.

Here before him stood John, muscles tense, skin flush and dripping wet, body clad in nothing but errant glittery soap suds, a cloud of heady fragrance, and a hastily-donned towel.

To be sure, he was a fantasy come to life, but though Sherlock prudently filed the image away for later, more thorough consideration, his lust was moribund.

The murderous rage in John’s eyes may have been the cause of death.

“My Christmas jumper.”

“It was the closest thing, John, to put out the fire.”

John scowled and pointed, perhaps at the unused fire extinguisher on the counter behind Sherlock, perhaps at something else entirely.

John growled. Once again, a sound that might have stoked Sherlock’s passion under other circumstances, but now had the opposite effect.

Fickle, fickle beast.

Half of the jumper had been reduced to ashes. One reindeer eye stared at Sherlock accusingly. Sherlock averted his gaze and studied John’s expression, estimating that his beloved was ten seconds away from punching him in the face. The decision to spare Sherlock’s nose and teeth was still pending.

Good.

Sherlock would serve his sentence willingly. Then perhaps they would have angry sex. Or make-up sex. Or both, if the Elder Gods were especially pleased with the sacrifice of the jumper.

What happened next, however, was much worse than a punch to the face. As soon as John’s gaze fell on the pink and black molten mass still smoldering on the kitchen table, his rage turned to sorrow.

“My gifts!” he moaned.

“You can punch me in the face, John,” offered Sherlock quickly, weakly, but the look John gave him was an icicle dagger straight to the heart.

John shook his head. Then he disappeared up the hall.

* * *

_Knock, knock!_

“I’ll cancel the jeep, John.”

The bedroom door opened.

“No, fresh air will do me good. But _I’m_ driving and _I’m_ in charge of the axe.”

“Of course.”

John pushed by Sherlock and stomped down the stairs.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“I know. I’m going to grab a torch. Gets dark quickly these days.”

As soon as John disappeared out of sight, Sherlock slipped into his bedroom.

* * *

“You lied, Sherlock.”

“Only by omission, John.”

“That was not a Christmas tree farm! That was someone’s home!”

“And wooded estate. You said that we needed a tree and I suggested an ideal spot in the country to find one. I never mentioned exactly where or what that spot was. You assumed.”

“And you never corrected my assumption.”

“True, but, here we are, at the end of the night, returning home with what even you will agree is a gorgeous Norway spruce!” Sherlock gestured to the roof of the car. “Plus, plenty of greenery for a wreath and garlands.”

“Funny how generous folks are when you’ve just caught _a bloody axe-murderer on their property!_ ”

“That the local constabulary did not connect the dots before tonight is, unfortunately, very common.”

John snorted.

“Admit it, John, you loved it. Heart pumping. Blood pounding in your veins. A chase through snowy woods. A very, very bad man behind bars. What’s not to love?”

“I can love it and still be upset at being manipulated by you, Sherlock. And if you ever take my gun again without my knowledge, I will be more than upset.” John glanced at him. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

They passed the rest of the journey in silence.

* * *

John sighed. “Hard part’s done. You’re right: it looks good by the window. Well, good night.”  He turned towards the stairs.

“We could decorate it tonight.”

“I’ve had enough for one day, Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “Good night, John,” he said quietly.

* * *

It was still dark when John padded down the stairs.

He looked edible, rumpled and warm, and Sherlock’s heart ached anew.

Please let it work. Please let it be enough. Let me be enough.

Please. Just please.

“Sherlock?”

“Good morning, John,” said Sherlock in a crisp business tone. “I’ve replaced your basket. Cocoa, lotion, _bark_ , everything save the lubricant.”

John grunted. Then he rubbed his eyes and blinked. “What are you wearing?!”

“They’re a set. Here’s yours.” Sherlock handed him a red jumper.

“’I’ve Been Nice’? Oh, my stocking is full of toys and yours has lumps of coal because—“

“’I’ve Been Naughty,’” said Sherlock.

“Christ Almighty, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry, John.” For being too much and not enough.

“Yeah, I’m getting that. And you decorated the tree!”

The doves and snowflakes and flowers that Sherlock had so meticulously folded were now hanging in spiral tracks amongst the branches. The two dragons sat perched at the very top of the tree.

“Everything’s ready. Would you like to do the honours?” asked Sherlock.

“Sure.” The eagerness in John’s voice sparked something akin to hope in Sherlock’s chest.

John flicked the switch.

The tree glowed.

“Oh, Sherlock. Well done.”

Sherlock beamed. Well, he tried to beam, but the itchy green monstrosity enswathing his torso made true pride elusive.

John stepped closer to the tree and touched the bit of yarn through which the decorations were strung.

“Sherlock, where did you get this?”

“I unraveled what remained of your jumper.”

That look. Oh, that look. Sherlock’s heart began to beat faster. Maybe. Maybe.

John turned back to the tree, smiling. He trailed one finger along the yarn, stopping at each knot, large and small.

Surely he wouldn’t…

He did.

And Sherlock knew he did because when the penny drops in John Hamish Watson’s brain it is telegraphed to the world across his face.

“Christ, Sherlock. Only you would hide a love letter in Morse Code in our Christmas decorations.”

“I love you, John and I am sorry.”

That look. Oh, that look.

It was the other look.

And suddenly, Sherlock’s desire was not a fickle beast at all, not when the light in John’s eyes told him that fantasy was ten seconds away from becoming reality, not when the flash of John’s tongue wickedly licking his own lips was a sure portend of wicked, wicked, oh Gods, yes, wicked things to come, and especially not when John’s voice fell to a growl.

“You should really take off that jumper, Sherlock.”


	6. Cocoa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone besides Santa may know when Sherlock and John been sleeping (and when they're awake).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For WAdvent prompt: winter beverages.

John placed a steaming mug on the floor beside Sherlock. “It’s cliché, drinking cocoa by the fire, but I don’t care.”

Sherlock gave the flaming logs a final stab with the iron poker then settled on the rug with his back against the seat of his armchair. John folded himself between Sherlock’s pyjama-clad legs. Sherlock wound his arms around John’s bare chest while a base tentacle stretched to retrieve the cocoa.

“It never gets old,” said John, nodding to the tentacle as it lifted the mug to Sherlock’s lips. “Watching those.”

Sherlock sipped, then said, “Good. They enjoy having an audience as much as I do.”

“How do you decide what to do with them versus—?”

“Priorities,” said Sherlock as he ran a hand up and down John’s chest in a lazy caress.

John smiled. “How’s the cocoa?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I like the little marshmallows, but on the whole, I prefer tea.”

“Me, too.”

They sipped their drinks and watched the fire in silence until Sherlock finally said,

“John, in the interest of full disclosure—“

John turned sharply. A tentacle set Sherlock’s mug on the floor. Then it gently took John’s from his grasp and placed it beside Sherlock’s.

“Now, Sherlock? After everything we just did?!”

“It’s not about my biology, John. It’s about the tree.”

“The tree?”

In the blissful afterglow, inertia had set in and John had vetoed the suggestion of retiring to a more comfortable bedroom, so after the requisite clean-up, they’d dozed together on the sofa as morning dawned and daylight crept into the room.

The tree was the last thing John’d seen before closing his eyes and the first thing he’d seen upon opening them.

“Well, the greenery to be precise.”

“I saw that you had binned a bit.”

“There was a, uh, rodent, John.”

“What?!”

“Trapped in the boughs. It had ensnared itself.”

“Dead?”

“No.”

John’s eyes widened. “How did we not see it?”

“I don’t know. There was the axe-murderer and then the row. I noticed it after you had gone to bed.”

“Did you kill it?”

“No. I intended to dispose of it, even procured the necessarily supplies to do so without causing a disturbance, seeing as how I’d already caused quite a few disturbances yesterday I was focused on doing things quietly and neatly, you see, but by the time I was prepared and ready, it had already escaped on its own.”

“WHAT?! Did you find it?”

“It’s gone, John. It’s highly probable that it’s gone.”

“HIGHLY PROBABLE?! There’s a mouse loose in the flat!”

John glanced about them, then he looked at Sherlock. “What are you not telling me, Sherlock?”

“ _Rodentia_ is a very large family of animals.”

John’s eyebrows rose.

“A squirrel, John.”

“There’s a squirrel in the flat!”

“No, no, I’m certain it’s gone. Almost certain. We would’ve heard something, seen something, by now.”

“We’ve been quite distracted, Sherlock. And making a lot of noise.” John gasped.

“Oh, God, Sherlock, do you think it was watching us?”


	7. Rockin' around the Christmas Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is revealed what the squirrel might have seen. Flashback. PWP with feels. Tentacle sex. First time.

Despite Sherlock’s scoffing, John shuddered at the thought of a pair of beady eyes on them, watching from a branch of the Christmas tree or the underbelly of the sofa or some other rodent-sized nook or cranny in the flat.

Fuck, they’d certainly given the furry fugitive an eyeful, hadn’t they?

* * *

“You should really take off that jumper, Sherlock.”

The speed with which Sherlock divested himself of the garment both flattered and reassured John, so he continued in the same low, urgent tone as he closed the distance between them,

“I’m done, Sherlock. Done with interruptions of the explosive or culinary or any other variety. I’m done with resentment, for the lies and the melted gifts and anything else of note. But most of all, I am done with waiting. I want you now, Sherlock. And barring any objections from you, I’d like the fucking to commence.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed hot and dark, like pools of liquid obsidian.

“Yes, forthwith,” he whispered.

John reached up, grabbed Sherlock by the back of the head, and crushed their lips together.

The kiss was hard and claiming and Sherlock gave as good as he got, kissing back, with equal pressure and unbridled lust. He ran his hands straight down John’s bare back, beneath his pyjama trousers, and cupped his buttocks. John squeezed the muscles in Sherlock’s grip and eagerly curled himself against Sherlock’s lower half.

John broke the kiss just long enough to smirk and growl, “Oh, yeah?” into Sherlock’s hungry mouth, as Sherlock’s hardness was more than evident through the two layers of thin fabric that separated them, and given the throbbing between John’s own legs, he knew that he was telegraphing the same glorious need to Sherlock.

Sherlock grunted and ran a flat hand along John’s prick.

Then both John’s hands were in Sherlock’s hair and he was standing on his toes, pressing his lips once more to Sherlock’s before rocking back on his heels and trailing wet kisses down Sherlock’s neck. When John moved to the side, Sherlock released him with a noise of protest.

“I want to fuck all of you,” said John as he circled Sherlock. And then he set his own raging lust aside, and did what he’d been thinking of doing for so very long: he put his mouth to the topmost slit in Sherlock’s back.

“JOHN!”

John flushed with love and lust and affection and every warm sentiment his heart could call its own as his name echoed through the flat.

“Been a while, eh?” he said with a grin before dedicating himself fully to the business of sucking and licking and probing the slit with his tongue.

“I must confess, John, the sensation is as novel as it pleasing.”

Before Sherlock’s reply, John would have sworn that absolutely nothing could’ve derailed this express train to Fuck-town, but now he heard brakes screeching.

“Sherlock, are you…?”

“No, I had a, uh, friend and, uh, lover, in university, but it was too dark and he was too drunk to realise—or remember—that there were more limbs than there should’ve been.”

“Was that on purpose?”                             

Sherlock’s silence was all the answer that John needed.             

“I want them, you, all of it, Sherlock. I want to touch you and be touched by you. Make you feel as good as I know you’re going to make me feel.”

John put his mouth to the slit once more and felt the tip of the tentacle uncoil into his mouth. It was the size of an index finger, but that’s where the similarity ended. John closed his mouth around it and sucked.

“Oh, Gods, John, I—they—us—me— _fuck!_ —we all want you.”

If John hadn’t already been rock hard, hearing Sherlock swear would have seen every drop of blood in his body to his cock. He kissed the expanse of skin between the topmost slits and, out of the corner of his eye, watched in wonder as the smallest tentacle emerged from Sherlock’s back and began to pet him.

“Amazing,” he mumbled against Sherlock’s skin as the tentacle ruffled his hair. “They’re all going to come out, yeah?”

“They’re,” Sherlock’s voice cracked, “they’re waiting their turn.”

“Oh, my!” teased John. “Extra special fucking for knowing how to queue.”

Sherlock moaned, and went on moaning as, John took his time, learning their texture, like shark skin as it was smooth on one gradient and slightly coarse on the opposite, their mildly sweet taste, and their size, which increased in diameter row by row.

“John, please.”

John stepped back as the sixth one emerged. It curled around his wrist, tugged him closer, then twisted his hand. A warm wetness filled John’s palm, and he instantly sought, then wrapped his slick fingers around Sherlock’s cock as a pair of tentacles pushed Sherlock’s pyjama trousers to his thighs.

At John’s touch, Sherlock choked back a cry.

John gave Sherlock’s cock two quick strokes, then said,

“Sofa. Then I can suck the big ones while I bring you off.”

In the few moments required to rearrange themselves, John noted that the bottle of slick—filled with what he assumed was the same unguent currently greasing his left palm—was not a bottle at all.

It was a jam jar.

“Homemade?” asked John.

Sherlock nodded. The lust-haze in his eyes was lifting, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And unscented.”

“Perfect,” said John as he and Sherlock stripped.

John stared Sherlock’s cock, plump, erect, jutting out of a nest of dark hair.

“You’re surprised it’s so anatomically conventional,” said Sherlock.

“That’s your fear, not your eyes, talking.”

Sherlock started and made to speak, but John put a hand over his mouth and said,

“You read me like a book. Don’t tell me there was a single moment of genuine observation in that very false conclusion. Actually, I was thinking how well matched we are.” He leaned up and kissed Sherlock’s open mouth, giving his bottom lip a gentle bite as he pulled back. “I’ve got an insatiable oral fixation and you’ve got far too many lovely things to suck.”

Sherlock’s eyes re-glazed. His half-smile grew into a wicked grin.

And, without a word, he knelt on the sofa.

* * *

John was a fuck toy, fondling Sherlock’s sacs and pumping Sherlock’s cock through a tight fist at the precise rhythm that the base tentacle breeched his own lips. His head was turned and resting on Sherlock’s back while seven tentacles wriggled around him like Gorgon ringlets.

Yes, he was a fuck toy, and a hard-working, sweat-soaked one at that, but he was loving every moment, and every facet, of the experience—including Sherlock’s babbling.

“John, oh, Gods, yes, mmm, next time, oh, _fuck_ , next time together, face-to-face, eyes, need to see you, but this time, yes, yes, oh, oh, _John!_ ”

The tentacle fled John’s mouth to join its companions in their ecstatic dance, and as Sherlock spent himself on the sofa, the eight writhed in pure frenzy.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock went limp. John caught him about the waist before he landed on his own mess.

John had the vague notion of a flurry of activity as they got to their feet. The sofa was being mopped with pyjamas—his pyjamas!—and the blanket draped across the back of the sofa was being laid out and smoothed along the cushions, but it was all background to the soft look in Sherlock’s eyes and the soft touch of his fingertips on John’s bottom lip.

“Love.”

The word escaped Sherlock in a puff of air and sounded like a candle being snuffed out.

John nodded. “Every part and the whole. Body, mind, spirit. Corporeal, ephemeral, and,” a small tentacle brushed John’s cheek affectionately, “supernatural.”

Sherlock smiled a slow, warm smile, then his gaze dropped.

“Your turn, John.”

At Sherlock’s words, John’s neglected cock made itself known. Very known.

* * *

John looked down and chuckled.

“I am a sick fuck.”

Sherlock smirked, but said nothing.

“Most blokes would be terrified of having two snakes wrapped around their knob but, fuck, I’m can’t stop staring. I’m hard as a rock and about to spend myself like a schoolboy.”

He was straddling Sherlock’s lap with tentacles caressing his hair and shoulders and teasing his nipples and rim, but his attention was fixed on the two largest tentacles coiling and uncoiling around his cock. No lube had been needed, they dripped of their own accord.

Mesmerising to watch and eliciting the most delicious physical sensation John’d ever known.

“Come on me, John.” It was the second time that Sherlock had made the request, and since the world’s only consulting detective never repeated himself, John filed the statement in his own mind under ‘things Sherlock likes.’

John’s hips began to buck. “Yeah, I’m going to ruin this pretty skin, just like you’re ruining me for sex with only four hands.”

“We are, indeed, complimentary,” said Sherlock. "In a myriad of ways."

Then John grunted and swore and painted Sherlock’s chest with his seed.

And were it not for Sherlock’s steadying arms, John might have tipped onto the rug, so fast did the tentacles leave him. They swarmed about Sherlock’s chest. Then he leaned forward and they retreated into his body.

John blinked.

Just like that, they were gone. And so was John’s come.

“Like those fish that eat the dead skin off the bottom of your feet, no?”

“Bit. Bedroom?”

John looked over his shoulder, then frowned and shook his head. “I want to look at the tree some more,” he whined as afterglow was quickly replaced by fatigue. He suspected Sherlock—despite his oft-voiced dismissal of his body as mere transport—was feeling the effects, too, because he didn’t even snort when John said,

“Let’s snuggle here.”

Pillows and more blankets were found. There was soft nuzzling and sweet kisses and even a throaty laugh or two before sleep claimed them both.

* * *

“Sherlock, if a squirrel scurries across the floorboards and neither of the fuck-worn idiots hear it, does it make a sound?” 

 


	8. Gift wrapping & Snowball fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which gift wrapping devolves into a technicolour mêlée. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompts are: 'Snow-related sporting events and other outdoor activities best observed from afar or perhaps indoors,' wrapping gifts, and snowball fight.

John set the box on the sofa. “This the last of Mrs. Hudson’s gifts.”

“Good. I’ve finished the fruitcakes.”

“Holy Mary, yes, you have.”

Brown cakes wrapped in gold-trimmed cellophane sat in rows on the kitchen table. Each was decorated with a large, elaborate bow.

“I’ll empty this box,” said John. “And take those down to her. Give you more space to work.”

Sherlock grunted. All his tentacles were extended and employed at different tasks: smoothing paper around gifts, tearing bits of tape, and neatly folding end corners.

“You truly have an advantage in this, Sherlock.”

“Obvious. As in everything, John.”

The two smallest tentacles were busy curling ribbon into intricate bows. “Beautiful work,” said John as he ran a finger along a slender coil. “Like a dragon’s shiny hoard.” The pile of ribbon-blossoms spilled from the table onto the floor by Sherlock’s feet and trailed like fairy tale bread crumbs into the sitting room.

The two tentacles abruptly stopped, letting a half-finished silver-and-gold bow tumble to floor, and began caressing John’s cheek and ruffling his hair. John ran a hand up and down each one, giving the segments nearest his mouth a pair of chaste kisses.

“Distracting, John.”        

John sighed. “No rest for the elves, I suppose.”

The two tentacles quickly scooped a bow, laced it through a long ribbon, and tied it around John’s head like a bonnet.

“You’re the cheeky ones,” teased John, patting the bow on the top of his head. “Thank you, my dears. Now back to work.”

* * *

“Wow! Almost done.”

“Yes, John.”

“Who’d have thought—?”

“I did. Really, John, you must keep up.”

John shook his head, then turned towards the tree. “Why do you always have to have the last word?”

THWAP!

John stared at the grapefruit-sized bow that had ricocheted off his head and was now resting beside his foot.

“You little—!”

“It wasn’t me, John!”

“Right, I forgot. Not you, _them_.”

“It wasn’t them, either!”

“Take that, my little serpentine friends!” cried John as he hurled the bow back at Sherlock.

THWAP!

Sherlock’s eyes widened, his nostrils flared. “You really shouldn’t have done that, John.”

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“Because I have just as much advantage in lobbing these as I do in making them.”

What ensued was a technicolour mêlée.

Sherlock did have the advantage, but he quickly exhausted his ammunition and resorted to hurling spools of ribbon, which flew through the flat like long-tailed comets. John rained bows upon Sherlock, using both hands at once to keep up with the onslaught.

They shouted taunts at each other, scurried to collect bows where they fell and pelted each other some more.

As Sherlock advanced into the sitting room, John hid behind Sherlock’s armchair.

“Sherlock?”

“John.”

John looked up.

Sherlock loomed over him from the back of the chair, grinning.

“I love you, you insufferable git.”

“You, too.”

John rose. Sherlock sank. Their lips met.

The kiss went on and on and—

THWAP!

“Sherlock!”

“John!”

“I didn’t—“

“I didn’t—“

“Then who?”

John’s gaze followed Sherlock’s to the mantle.

“SQUIRREL!”


	9. Holiday films

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the definition of pornography is not the only thing that remains elusive. 
> 
> Some sexual content, but no detailed description.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompts are: "Love, Actually: That porn stunt double does not look like me AT ALL what are you on about" and "Ice skating, cutting down your own tree, hanging fairy lights, and other ways to injure oneself in December (and the consequences of same)" and watching holiday films.

“I swear on the Elder Gods, your God, or anything else you find holy, John, I did not orchestrate this.”

Pain finally broke through remnants of John’s opiate fog like an advancing army. His head began to throb. His breath was held captive in his chest.

He was in the moment. He was not in the moment.

He was looking at Sherlock. He was looking at himself from a distance.

How had they got to this precipice?

* * *

Step by step, they slowly made their way up the stairs, with John pretending he didn’t need Sherlock’s steadying arm, and Sherlock pretending that he wasn’t offering it.

“I could have stitched you up, John.”

“No, _I_ could’ve stitched me up. But as much as our first aid supplies rival that of a field hospital, we do not, in fact, own an x-ray machine and I wanted to confirm that none of my ribs were actually broken.”

“It wouldn’t affect—“

“No, it wouldn’t affect the course of treatment, but I wanted the satisfaction of knowing just how much damage the hunt for one squirrel can inflict on the human body. You needn’t have come along. Even with deducing everyone in the waiting room, you were still bored senseless. And what’s more, you were laughing during my whole crusade after that furry bastard.”

“John, I admit it was amusing at first, watching you battle our rodent interloper, with and without broom, but I stopped laughing when the kitchen chair broke.”

Sherlock removed his coat, and one thin tentacle emerged to brush John tenderly on the unbandaged side of his head.

“It’s all cartoon antics until you’re the one crashing face first onto the stove,” said John as he returned the gentle caress. “Oh, look, a basket from Mrs. Hudson. ‘Thank you so much for your help with the gifts! Sorry about the accident. A few treats to keep your holiday spirits up!’ Films, sweets, oh, and a very nice bottle of bourbon.”

“The last is a second-hand gift. Mister Chaterjee’s trying to get back in her graces, but he won’t do it by forgetting that she much prefers gin.”

“Well, his err is our—oh, yes, I see, lemon, honey—hot toddy, I suppose?”

Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder. “And to top it off, an invoice for the cost of the chair.”

“Romantic, generous, _and_ pragmatic is our landlady.” John sighed. “Christ, Sherlock, five stitches to my scalp and that bloody squirrel is still here!”

“He may be gone by now, John.”

“The real mystery to me is why you don’t put that great brain and those supernaturally dexterous limbs of yours to work finding and getting rid of him. He’d be gone in minutes.”

Sherlock stared.

“The truth, Sherlock.”

“I am curious to see what he does next.”

John chuckled. “Well, even if he’s still hiding, I’m too beat to try and root him out today. Pain pill—“

“You never take those.”

“Yeah, well, today’s not a normal day, is it? He’s not an ordinary crook or criminal. Yeah, pill, then shower, then maybe one or two of those,” he nodded to the films in the basket, “until I nod off.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, but was snuggled next to John by the time George Bailey’s guardian angel had jumped in the river after him.

“I could put it on the telly,” offered Sherlock. The laptop was perched on a pile of books on the coffee table.

John grunted, then shook his head, then grunted again. “Not worth re-arranging the furniture. I doubt I’ll even make it to ol’ Clarence getting his wings.” He fussed with the blankets, then turned his head and kissed Sherlock softly. “Thanks for coming with me to the A & E.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock kissed him back. John relaxed into his arms, then felt a gentle stroking of his shoulder. He smiled.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock hummed.

Beneath the blankets, John untied the sash of his bathrobe and pulled the sides apart. “Careful with the left side, but…oh, God.”

Invasion. That’s what it felt like. A lovely, erotic invasion of curling tentacles. Between his legs, across his chest and belly, along his thighs.

“Oh, fuck, that’s good.”

Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s shoulder. “Rest, John.”

“Yeah, right,” murmured John just before he closed his eyes.

* * *

John opened his eyes.

He was fucking a blonde woman.

“Wh—?”

Oh, yeah. That Christmas film.

“John.”

“That porn stunt double does not look like me at all, Sherlock.”

“Of course, he does. And he acts like you, too, very courteously warming his hands before touching that woman’s breasts, for example. A very John thing to do.”

John did not realise that he had fallen asleep cradled in all of Sherlock’s appendages until the tentacles began to recede. He made to sit up and succeeded with Sherlock’s help. Between the lingering effects of the medicine in his veins and the restorative power of a nap in Sherlock’s loving, if net-like, embrace, he felt a new man.

“I suppose if doctoring and chasing after your arse don’t work out, there might be a third career waiting in the wings for me.”

Sherlock grinned, then attempted a casual, dismissive wave of the hand towards the laptop. “It could hardly be called pornography, John, if you were behind the scenes.”

John laughed. “Cheeky bastard.” He leaned closer, then glanced at the screen. “Behave or I’ll sit on you like that pretty lady is sitting on not-me.”

“Promise?”

Their eyes met. Then blankets, dressing gowns, and bathrobes began to litter the floor.

* * *

The flat was quiet, well, quiet save for the sound of two lust-crazed, hard-breathing, filthy-mouthed flatmates attempting to shag each other senseless.

THUNK!

“Fuck, Sherlock, think I kicked the computer.”

“Buy y'another. Just don’t _fucking_ stop.”

* * *

“Does it need to be said, John? Okay, I’ll say it: _I did not film us having sex without your knowledge!_ ”

“You know I’m shit at computers, Sherlock. If you didn’t engineer it, how in the bloody hell did _that_ happen?” John pointed to the screen.

“I’ll show you.” Sherlock tapped the screen.

“OH MY GOD! THAT’S IM—!”

“Highly, highly, highly improbable, John. And a clear sign of a very lazy universe. How he could strike the precise keys to turn off the film and turn on the webcam, I do not know, but…”

“There he is! There he fucking, fucking is! The accidental pervert!”

John hit the screen, and the image froze. One shiny black eye stared at the camera in the foreground while one fluffy tail, mid-twitch, and one naked arse, mid-fuck, filled the background.

“I’m going to find him and wring his little neck, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded and pressed ‘play.’

“Um, John?”

“Yeah?”

“About, uh, the recording. I want to study it, uh, I mean, the squirrel. Maybe it will provide clues to his hiding places and, uh, modus operandi.”

John stopped and stared. Then he burst out laughing. The vibrations made his head ache something fierce, but he didn’t care. His anger evaporated.

“Yeah, go be detective, but don’t forget this.” He retrieved the jam jar of lube from beneath the sofa. “It’s for the _clues_.”


	10. Baking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock's curiosity is gone with the gingerbread.

“Yoo-hoo! Boys!”

John quickly moved to the desk and slammed the moaning laptop closed.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“Hello, my dears. Uh, a word. Here,” she thrust a large, heavy bowl at John, “is everything that you need to make some delightful gingerbread biscuits. I’m having Marie and a few of the other respectable landladies over for luncheon today. Why don’t you two bake very quietly for, oh, I don’t know, the next three or four hours? Christmas baking is wonderful: marvelous aroma, doesn’t explode, or warrant a visit from the fire brigade or that lovely Detective Inspector…”

John’s face felt warm. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m so sorry about the noise and the chair, all of it. We’ll, uh, keep it down. And how about we bring a few of these downstairs for you and the ladies for dessert?”

She patted John’s arm. “Such a good man is our doctor, isn’t he, Sherlock?”

Sherlock hummed.

When she’d left, John said, “Well, that was embarrassing.” He peered into the bowl. “Christmas baking! This’ll be fun.”

“Perhaps.”

The light in Sherlock’s eyes belied his casual tone, and John suspected that his annoyance at having to halt his ‘research’ was quickly being replaced by childlike anticipation of another Christmas tradition soon underway.

* * *

“It does smell lovely. Oh, wow, Sherlock! You’re very good at this.”

“It’s my Vernet, John. Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.”

“Gingerbread landladies is a new one, that’s for certain. This one is Mrs. Hudson, and that’s Mrs. Turner. The likenesses are uncanny.”

“It helps having my own brush set.” The four smaller tentacles wiggled, and John kissed the sugar-coated tip of each affectionately.

“I’ll set these on a plate and take them downstairs to the ladies while you start the next batch. You know, there are quite a lot of cutters here. Stars, trees, angels. All sorts of possibilities.”

* * *

“Sorry it took me so long. They loved them. Oh, Sherlock!” John scanned the kitchen counter. “You used up everything?”

“Obviously. But those shapes were too conventional. My art, John.”

John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Yes, I can see that. You’ve made gingerbread men—“

“Gingerbread John Watsons,” corrected Sherlock. “Note the jumpers.”

John smiled and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “—and what could only be Gingerbread Sherlock Holmeses." Each of the latter was complete with black coat, blue scarf, and eight waving tentacles.

Sherlock turned and said, “You were right, John. This has been fun.” His two base tentacles twined around John’s waist.

Recognising the glint in Sherlock’s eyes, John admonished, “We’re supposed to be quiet Sherlock.”

Sherlock leaned closer. “Just put your mouth on mine and neither of us will make a sound.”

John bit back a giggle and allowed Sherlock to lead him to the sofa.

Quiet Christmas snogging was about to become quiet Christmas shagging when John heard a soft thud followed by the scratching of nails on countertop and a loud noise that he couldn’t readily place.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock threw John off his lap and hurried to kitchen. John followed just behind him. He spied a furry tail disappearing behind the refrigerator.

“It’s him!” cried John.

“John.”

“Oh, God!”

It was a gingerbread massacre.

“This is war,” declared Sherlock.


	11. Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a situation benefits from an outside perspective.
> 
> Note: this starts out on a dark, intended squirrelicide note, but ends happily. Fans of "The Great Mouse Detective" will recognize the predicament in which our furry friend finds himself.

Three days.

Three days is what it took for the world’s only consulting detective and his blogger to go from the side of the angels to, well, the opposite camp.

Three days sequestered in the flat in pursuit of their adversary. Three days with little food and even less sleep. Three days for game to become quest and quest to become madness.

But they’d caught him.

Oh, yes, he’d been caught, tried, and sentenced in the court of 221B Baker Street.

And now the sentence was to be carried out.

And because Sherlock and John could not agree on a method of execution, they were employing several.

 “It’s time,” said Sherlock in a hollow voice.

“Yes,” answered John in the same voice.

Sherlock tapped his phone and a tinny voice began to sing,

_“Good-bye, so soon, and isn’t it a crime?”_

But somewhere, another voice, a deep baritone rang out:

“… _to save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray, oh, tidings of comfort and joy_ …”

Sherlock blinked.

John blinked.

“John, am I a monster?”

“Sherlock, this is wrong. We’re both monsters if we do this.”

“Hallo, hallo, hallo, lads, what’s all this?” said a voice behind them.

Sherlock and John turned toward the door.

“Well, don’t you look like a couple of Scrooges who’ve just seen Marley’s ghost!”

“What are you doing here, Lestrade?” growled Sherlock.

“Your landlady was worried about you. So was I, quite frankly.” He looked over John’s shoulder. “And with reason. Let’s see crossbow…anvil…axe…all to pointed one furry-tailed acorn-eating little fellow, who is tied this,” he squinted, “broken chair like a damsel to the railroad tracks.”

“You don’t understand….”

“Heard that one before,” said Lestrade, producing a pocket knife. “Step aside, boys.”

“It isn’t what it seems…”

“Heard that one, too. It’s a favourite, actually.” Lestrade leaned down and whispered, “Like donuts, _mi amigo_? How about maple glazed with extra nuts on top?”

A round, shiny pastry appeared. The condemned chattered excitedly.

“You can’t!” howled John. “He’s evil! He tried to kill me, us, many times, in human and biscuit form! He took a secret video of us having sex!”

Lestrade looked over his shoulder. “Right. When’s the last time either of you had a bite to eat? Or a nap? Or a shower? Come on, friend.”

“NO!” Sherlock and John cried.

“Stand down, solider. You, too, Sherlock,” barked Lestrade.

Once freed of his bonds, the squirrel snatched the half-ring of donut from Lestrade’s hand and leapt onto his shoulder.

Lestrade stood. “Animals love me,” he explained. “It’s a gift. All right, my little friend, let’s get you home, and you two need to eat, bathe, and sleep.”

Sherlock and John stood speechless, motionless as the squirrel stuffed his cheeks, then disappeared with Lestrade down the stairs.

“Have yourselves a merry little Christmas. There’ll be a nice, gruesome cold case waiting for you on Boxing Day,” called Lestrade just before the front door slammed.

Sherlock was the first to blink. “Christmas? But that’s…” He looked at his mobile.

“Fuck, it’s Christmas Eve, Sherlock!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan is to keep going until New Year's Eve.


	12. Gifts & Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two hearts are warmed and a liver is cooled on Christmas Eve. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompts are 'I’ve left all of my holiday decisions to the last minute; what could possibly go wrong?' and 'making Christmas cards.'
> 
> [These stockings](https://www.facebook.com/NerdBirdCraftings/posts/545554992201280) are inspired the poem that inspired this fic.

John stared at the rows and rows of Christmas cards.

Correction:  John stared at the rows and rows of empty spaces where there used to be Christmas cards.

Christmas Eve.

Who waits until Christmas Eve to buy a Christmas card? Someone who’d been in a squirrel-hunting _folie à deux_ for the past three days. Even if a card that convey the precise sentiment in John’s heart existed, it would’ve been snatched up and out of stock long ago.

And the shop was closing.

Lovely.

John would have to return to the flat without a gift, without even a card for Sherlock. He’d left the most delicate of holiday decisions to the last minute, with predicable results.

What now?

He could make a card.

He shuddered. Returning utterly empty-handed didn’t appeal any more than a primary school effort. He avoided the shop assistant’s impatient glare and sought out coloured paper. He frowned at the glitter and glue, then an idea occurred.

But for it to work, he’d need to get Sherlock out of the flat. He fished his mobile out of his pocket.

**Barts. SH**

**Tonight?! JW**

**Back soon. SH**

John smiled and dashed home.  

* * *

Sherlock dashed towards John as soon as he reached the top step. Then he glanced over John’s shoulder. His eye widened.

John raised a halting hand and pointed toward the kitchen.

“First, put that in the fridge,” he pointed to the plastic container in Sherlock’s hands. “Bottom shelf and only the bottom shelf.”

“Yes, John.”

The refrigerator door slammed, and John was being swept off his feet.

“Thank you, John.”

Sherlock set him down and kissed him. “I don’t know what you promised Molly in exchange for that liver, but…”

“I don’t want to hear a single gripe about my cat-sitting Toby whilst she’s on holiday next week.”

Sherlock nodded, then he looked at the lone stocking which hung over the fireplace. It was shaped like a curling tentacle.

“They’ll have to share. Next year there’ll be eight,” said John.

“Next year there’ll be nine,” said Sherlock. “One for you. May I?”

John nodded.

Sherlock took down the stocking and drew out a pack of squares of coloured paper.

“For folding,” said John.

Then there were paints.

“No brushes.”

And bits of rope and ribbons.

“For knotting.”

And bracelets. Rings and rings. Metal, plastic, string. With beads, with bells, even one with feathered fringe.

“You got them gifts,” said Sherlock softly. “I never would have dreamed that someone would understand, that they are me and I am them but at the same time not entirely. And not just understand, but love, all of us.”

As Sherlock’s tentacles emerged and reached for John, he stiffened and pushed away.

“I didn’t get _you_ a gift, Sherlock. I didn’t even get a card. Everything left would have induced nausea or warranted a sneer or both.  I thought of making a card and then I saw all these little things that,” John reached a hand up and a small tentacle coiled around his finger, “these parts of you might enjoy. Mrs. Hudson gave me the fabric and thread for that.” He pointed to the stocking. “Don’t tug it too hard or it’ll fall apart, but even so, I still wanted to tell you how I feel, to tell you all the things I love about you, so I wrote it down.”

John walked to the tree and plucked one of the doves from the bough. He unfolded it and held it open for Sherlock to read.

_‘the way you flip your coat collar up to look cool’_

John took another dove from the tree and unfolded it.

 _‘the smell of your_ _poncey shampoo’_

And another.

_‘that thing you do with your tongue’_

And another.

_‘I love you’_

Then John was being crushed to Sherlock’s chest and enveloped in ten loving appendages.

“The whole tree?” asked Sherlock, pressing his lips to the top of John’s head.

“Just the doves. You weren’t gone that long.”

“I love you.”

BEEP!

“Fuck, not a case! Oh, wait, that’s me,” said John.

“Your Christmas gift, card, well, whatever.”

“It’s a text?”

Sherlock huffed. “The electronic file is attached to a text. I was in a similar quandary, John. Nothing manufactured could convey my sentiment adequately.” He walked them both together until the back of John’s legs hit the seat of his armchair.

He sat.

Sherlock stepped back and from behind his own armchair produced his violin and bow.

“The first song on the night’s programme is a short, spirited tune called _The Ballad of the Naughty Red Squirrel_. And the second is a lengthier and much more heart-felt _Happy Christmas, John_.”

“You wrote me a song,” breathed John as he sank further into his chair and waited for the music to start.


	13. Snowed in + Ice-skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the remedy for cabin fever is a bit of snow and ice. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompts are: 'Being snowed in with me: Good or Bad?' and 'This is my favorite holiday tradition so just shut up and do it already/this is my least favorite holiday tradition but I feel like we have to do it so just shut up and do it already' and ice-skating.

“Christmas may not have been white, but New Year most certainly will be,” said John as he let the curtain fall back into place. “Winter wonderland out there. Snow’s pretty—the first two days it falls.” He looked back. “Sherlock? Are you even listening?”

Sherlock grunted.

“I bet you don’t even know that we’re snowed in, what with the cold cases and the liver. Meanwhile, I’ve cleaned, twice, watched telly, read a whole novel, made soup, made beans, even made peppermint bloody cocoa—“

“Just tea for me, thanks,” mumbled Sherlock without looking up from his laptop.

John scratched the back of his neck. “My family used to play games when we were snowed in at the holidays like this. Maybe Mrs. Hudson can lend us…”

* * *

“You know I’m remembering why this was my least favourite holiday tradition. Harry cheated, too!”

“It is the only possible solution, John.”

“It’s against the rules!”

“Well then the rules are wrong!”

John stood and went to the window. “Christ, being cooped up is the worst. Before you know it, _I’m_ going to be decorating the walls with bullets.” He whipped ‘round and shot a warning look at Sherlock. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I don’t need to ‘get’ ideas, John. I already have plenty. One in particular is forefront at the moment.”

“Sherlock, don’t you dare—“

Sherlock disappeared, not up the stairs as John had feared, but down the hall.

There was the distinctive sound of closet-rummaging.

Then Sherlock reappeared and said, “Let’s fly the coop.”

* * *

“Sherlock, I think we’re trespassing. This place is closed.”

“Put on the skates and join me.”

John hesitated. “I’m shite at this.”

“I’ll hold your hand.”

John shrugged, then bent to unlace his boots. “I never knew we were the same shoe size.” He donned the skates, then stood up to watch Sherlock.

The snow had stopped falling, and a sliver of moonlight illuminate the ice. Sherlock glided gracefully, leaning this way and that way, with a torch curled in one tentacle.

John grasped the other torch and tentatively crunched to the edge of the snow.

Sherlock rushed to his side. One small tentacle took the torch while the two base ones rested gently on his waist.

“Of course, you do this beautifully, too,” said John, trying not to wobble and failing despite the four, then six, appendages attempting to steady him. He stared at his hands in Sherlock’s and asked, “Do you dance?”

“I love dancing. Never really comes up in crime work but I live in hope for the right case.”

John looked up and held Sherlock’s gaze. The wobbling stopped, and their pace quickened.

Sherlock smiled. “Much better, John. Don’t look down. Keep your eyes on me.”

Soon they were sailing together hand in hand, with Sherlock’s tentacles serving as rudder, sails, searchlight, and ornament. They crisscrossed the ice, back and forth, grinning, where Sherlock lead, John followed, around and around until the snow began to fall once more.

Sherlock slowed and drew John into arms. The torches went dark when their lips met. Then John tucked his head under Sherlock’s chin and simply held on, as they say, for dear life.

“Home?” asked Sherlock when the snowfall thickened.

“Yeah, though a wouldn’t mind being stuck here for a while.”

“Until spring,” whispered Sherlock. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Dancing & Hot Toddies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a bit of dancing and a bit of drinking. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that the chapters are getting short. I'm losing steam as the New Year approaches. The next chapter will be PWP tentacle porn and then the final chapter will be back to New Year's fluff.
> 
> I've exhausted the interesting OTP Christmas prompts, but there are still a couple left that I like on the SFC ficathon site. The prompts for this chapter are: 'Egg nog, mulled wine, and other seasonal beverages that cause unintended consequences' & 'Let’s pretend there’s a power cut and bring out all those candles from the gay pilot.'

“How about a hot toddy? We can finally use the bourbon Mrs. Hudson gave us.”

“Just tea for me, thanks.”

“Yeah, well, nobody’s getting anything until I’m in dry clothes. Excuse me.”

“I’m sorry, John, that you fell into the snow drift—“

“Yeah.”

“—twice.”

* * *

“Did the power go out?!”

“No, um, I thought since the ice-skating went so well, we might try dancing. It’s very similar as you noted.”

“By candlelight? And I thought that _I_ was a romantic sod. Have a song in mind?”

“Your song, naturally. It’s danceable. I made certain.” Sherlock tapped John’s phone.

“I’ll follow, you lead?”

“Obvious. Do keep up, John.”

“I’ll try.”

* * *

“This is lovely, Sherlock, waltzing about the flat in sock feet to your beautiful composition.”

“It is, isn’t it? Thank you for the dance.” He bowed slightly.

“Are you certain I can’t interest you in a toddy? We’ve lemon, honey. Seems like the perfect night, or rather, morning for it.”

“The truth is I choose not to consume alcohol.”

“Really?” John scratched his head. “How did I not know that?”

“It’s not come up.”

“Well, you’ve certainly never been with me to the pub. Wait, there was, hmm, no, I guess not, but didn’t you have a glass of champagne during that case, the one at the restaurant—?”

“I pretended.”

“Is it like the lube? I mean, is it harmful to your biology? Or do you just not like it? If it’s none of my business, that’s all right, too. I mean, you know about Harry, so whatever the reason, it’s all fine.”

“It’s mostly fear, I suppose.” He turned away. “At any given moment, my tentacles are largely, but not entirely, under my control. Limited experimentation suggests that that control diminishes as my blood alcohol level increases, and I have always feared exposing myself involuntarily.”

“I see. But that’s in public. In your own home?"

Sherlock shrugged.

John touched his shoulder. A small tentacle emerged and wrapped around John's knuckles as he said,

“Well, I’ll make both and you can choose. You’ll get no pressure from me either way. But listen carefully: you may be afraid, but I am not. I know that you’d never harm me. You’re not a monster, drunk, high, or otherwise.”

* * *

John bit his lip.

“They are all spinning now, aren’t they?” said Sherlock.

John nodded, then seeing Sherlock’s smile, laughed. “Are you as drunk as they are?”

Sherlock shook his head.

Origami creatures and knotted bits of rope littered the floor. Bracelets jingled as they spun like tiny hula-hoops in a eight-pronged halo above Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock put his lips to the steaming mug and sipped. “It’s good.”

John placed his hand over Sherlock’s. “Thank you. You know I quite like being snowed in with you.”

“As do I, John.”

* * *

“Tell me!” cried Sherlock as he slammed the empty mug on the table. His tentacles were now moving in what appeared to be Bollywood style choreography.

“You mean you can’t deduce it?” John teased.

“Bricks and clay, my dear man! Oh, all right. You tell me one of your sexual fantasies and I’ll tell you one of mine.”

“At the same time. On three?”

Sherlock nodded. “One, two…"


	15. Christmas Kraken (Rating: Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the kraken is released. PWP. Tentacle porn, neat, no chaser.

John groaned as the two base tentacles curled up between his thighs like thick roots and gently spread his legs. They lifted the lower half of his body, and a third tentacle slipped beneath him. He leaned back, his shoulders grinding into Sherlock’s and met his heated gaze in the reflection.

“Mirrors,” John said between ragged breaths. “Ingenious.”

“You wanted me to watch. Webcams, computers,” Sherlock shrugged, “this held more appeal.”

“Elegant. Old-fashioned. Like a magician.”

“That’s me.” The light in Sherlock’s eyes and his playful tone and the cheeky twist of his lips charmed John, much like the tip of the tentacle teasing his rim. “You look beautiful, John.”

Beautiful. It wasn’t a word John often used for himself, but in this moment, with the carefully-positioned mirrors affording him a view of himself as well as Sherlock, he felt beautiful.

Like a damsel in distress. Held captive, willingly captive, by a powerful sea creature.

Not monster, no, never that.

John’s prick was hard as a rock and his body and mind were clamouring for more.

His chest rose and fell as the smaller tentacles crisscrossed it, caressing him, embracing him. They tickled under his arms. He squirmed and giggled, but did not release Sherlock’s hand.

They sat back-to-back, fingers clasped.

“Beautiful,” said Sherlock softly echoing his word, John’s thought.

John’s head fell to one side. He sucked the tip of a thin tentacle as it crossed his cheek. It slipped out of his mouth, then returned. He sucked some more.

He twirled his tongue around the protuberance while another ruffled the hair on his head and still another snaked through the hair on his chest.

They were everywhere, and it was glorious.

Then all at once the tentacles disappeared from his head and torso. They reappeared cresting the ridges of his shoulders from behind. They then cascaded down over his arms, like the straps of a mammoth roller coaster. Or a rocket ship.

They held him fast to Sherlock.

“You want to be taken,” said Sherlock. His voice dripped with darkness, the good kind. The Hollywood villain kind that always made John shift a bit in his theatre seat. “To be at our mercy.”

John swallowed loudly and replied, “Fuck, yes.”

“Then first you must be secured.”

The tentacles’ grip on John’s arms tightened. A tentacle wound ‘round his erect, leaking, throbbing cock. The tentacle at his rim began to probe ever so gently.

“How deep is that thing going to go?” John asked.

“As deep as your pleasure affords.”

John exhaled. He rolled his head back and forth, looking in the mirror, at his body, at Sherlock, then looking away at the candles that encircled them.

Pure fantasy, his fantasy.

“That was the point, no?” Sherlock squeezed John’s fingers. There was no mistaking the concern in gesture or tone.

John’s heart swelled. “I love you, Sherlock, so much, so bloody much. You’re going to make a complete mess of me, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Sherlock’s gaze softened. “There’ll be plenty of time for,” he paused, “sentiment after you’ve been properly fucked.”

John grinned and strained against the tentacles at his arms. “Oh, no, shall I escape?” he said mockingly.

Sherlock smirked. “Hardly.”

The tentacle wrapped ‘round John’s cock began to coil and uncoil, up and down, and the tentacle at his rim pushed past the first ring of muscle. John raised his hips. Another tentacle curled ‘round his sacs. John watched them slide and rub and squeeze in synchronized movements made smooth by the copious secretions oozing from their pores.

It was hypnotic.

And John was mesmerized.

He whimpered. His hips were pulsing now, up, up, up, seeking to join the dance. The tentacle was pushing deeper and deeper and swelling—oh, fuck!

“John.”

John’s hips dropped to the floor, and it was only in cracking one eye that he realised that he’d closed them or that the smallest tentacles had abandoned their bondage roles and pushed between his lips. Without ceasing his sucking—God, they tasted so good, so right in his mouth—he responded.

“Mm?”

“Contrary to earlier assertions, I find myself unable to ignore my own physical reaction.”

Too many words, too many Sherlock words.

“Wank?” he mumbled.

“Yes, if it will not interfere with your fantasy.”

John whimpered at the sheer madness of Sherlock’s uncertainty. The tentacles slid from his mouth. Wet from their own secretions as well as his saliva, they left a sodden trail from his chin to his nipples.

“If you’re not wanking to this, you gorgeous bastard, then…oh, oh, oh, OH!”

John’s rant was curtailed by the pinching of his nipples and the brushing of his prostate, but not for long.

“Is that thing going to fuck my arse or what?!” Both of his eyes were open now, staring into the mirror. The twisting and turning was marvelous, but not the thrusting that he so craved now.

“No,” said Sherlock.

“NO?!”

“This,” John’s leg dropped as the base tentacle rose up in front of his eyes, “is going to fuck your arse.”

“OH MY GOD!”

“It’s all been prep, John.”

“Release the bloody Kraken, motherfucker.”

The rest was a symphony of moans, his, Sherlock’s, alternating between obscene curses and plaintive pleas for more as John’s hole was stretched and filled.

John would remember four tips in his mouth. He would remember his free hand—for one stayed linked to Sherlock throughout—squeezing and stroking four lengths, attempting to mimic the pleasuring of his cock and balls.

But mostly he would remember the thick cord ruthlessly plundering him, thrusting the way he'd only imagined in his most lurid dreams.

“Sherlock!”

He could take no more. He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers.

And it was then that John realised where his preternatural control was the result of a tentacle serving as cock ring ‘round the base of his shaft. As soon as it uncoiled, he spurted long streaks of come.

In cartoonish fashion, the tentacles all let go of John at once and he slumped. They quickly lapped up his spent seed and bid him a sloppy, drunken farewell before retreating one by one into Sherlock’s body.

John released Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock turned and John fell back into his arms.

His two arms.

Sherlock looked down. John looked up and said,

“Your turn.”

* * *

A dark room. A bed.

Clean sheets. Clean bodies.

Four arms, four legs.

“A proper shag,” said John.

“Most proper. No sharing.”

“And kissing.”

And with Sherlock’s breathy ‘Gods, yes,’ John had his marching orders.

* * *

“But you know, Sherlock,” John nuzzled along the nape of Sherlock’s neck, “kissing isn’t fucking.”

Sherlock reached for John’s hands and laced their fingers together once more. “Mm?”

“Kissing’s loving.” John ground his flaccid cock into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, then bent to press his lips to Sherlock’s spine. He sank lower and lower, then bit Sherlock’s buttock. “I am going to love,” he licked and licked, “every inch of you.”

Sherlock rolled onto his back, and John dipped below his hardening cock to kiss Sherlock’s balls and his perineum.

“I love you, John. And that, and this, is my fantasy made real.”

John hummed and kissed the slit of Sherlock’s cockhead.


	16. New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we say good-bye to our pair as they say hello to a new year. Fluff. Very short chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: I’m not just making this major change because it’s New Year’s Eve; that’s a total coincidence.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's taken this journey with me! Best wishes for you all in the new year!

“Fuck!” groaned John.

“Quite,” said Sherlock.

A tentacle patted John’s head, and an inviting cup of tea hovered near as he opened his eyes.

_Tap, tap, tap._

John glanced at Sherlock, who was wrapped in a dressing gown, sitting with his back against headboard, gazing intently at a computer screen.

Wearing glasses!

“Uh, good morning.”

“Afternoon.”

“Uh, okay.”

John pushed up. “Oh, fuck, Jesus Christ. Everything hurts.” He looked at Sherlock’s screen and blinked. “Property? Case?”

“No, I just bought a house, well, cottage.”

“What?!”

“Sussex.” He turned the screen toward John. “So?”

John nodded. “Nice, so is that, uh, investment, and, um, you know, the glasses, because of the New Year? Big change and all?”

“No, it’s because I want a comfortable place to spend my retirement. I want to keep bees, John.”

“Bees, uh, okay. Wait, retirement?!”

“I do age, John. And the glasses are because I want to see my beloved clearly when I do. All this screen time, wear and tear, etcetera. So?”

“So what?”

Sherlock huffed, then removed his glasses and rolled his eyes. A thin tentacle took the glasses and held them aloft.

John smiled. “I want to spend the rest of my days with you, Sherlock. Sickness, health, richer, poorer, the whole lot. That cottage looks lovely.”

Sherlock smiled, then kissed John.

“I also like those glasses. Very…”

“Sexy Librarian Kraken?”

John laughed. “Yeah. Later? Or,” he shifted and groaned, “maybe tomorrow. Ugh. Happy New Year, Sherlock.”

“Happy New Year, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Happy Holidays!


End file.
